Broken Treasure
by Sister-to-the-Queen
Summary: A sequel to Clear Dawnlight's story 'Fade to Black'.
1. Prologue: Naught Truly Dies

_Hello, everyone. I'm back._

_The story you're about to read is a sequel to 'Fade to Black', a symphony of sorrow written by Clear Dawnlight, who is made of win and awesome. You must read this story first for mine to make any sense. My story was written with permission, and out of love for those two. You'll understand what I mean by that once you start reading. Let me stress that this is _a_ sequel, not _the_ sequel. The other one, 'Resurgemus', was written by Clear Dawnlight herself, and she posted the first chapter yesterday. If you haven't read it yet, then what in Creation are you doing here? Go read it. Go read it right now._

_Before we begin, I'd like to give an _enormous_ thank-you to Clear Dawnlight. She wrote 'Fade to Black', managed to drive me crazy with grief, and thus inspired me to write this. She stuck by me throughout my writing, proofread the whole story, and was a huge support to my confidence. Without her, this story would never have seen daylight, or dawnlight, if you will._

_Oh, yes. Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. No copyright infringement or personal profit is intended. John Barclay's is an actual company, and is not mentioned here for publicitary purposes._

_Warnings: slash, language, mild violence, mild sexual themes._

_Without further ado, here's the story. Enjoy._

_Dedicated to Clear Dawnlight, in admiration and affection._

_–––_

**_Broken Treasure_**

_Prologue_

_Naught Truly Dies_

_–––_

All alone in His throne room, God was crying.

Two thousand years. For two thousand years, this had been kept from Him. His Voice, highest-ranked of all His angels, had hidden it from Him. It was through the grief of another that the truth had been revealed.

_"Father?"_

_"Yes, Gabriel? What is it, My daughter?"_

_"I... Forgive my impudence, but... Why have You done this thing? I mean no disrespect, my Father, but I've been trying for so long to understand, and I find that I simply cannot. Why have You punished them so? They never wronged You, they only... loved. Is not this the greatest virtue of all?"_

_"Child, what are you saying? Of whom do you speak?"_

_"Of... Of the angel Aziraphale and the demon Craw... _Crowley_, Father. They who shared a love so strong that even the difference in their natures was nothing in the face of it. I... I always believed they were blessed. Why was one destroyed, the other forgotten? I do not doubt Your wisdom, my Father, but I cannot... see..."_

_She burst into tears._

_The Lord was silent for a long time; the Archangel's convulsive sobs were the only sounds that could be heard._

_Finally, God said, "Child, tell Me. How long ago did this happen?"_

_"Two thousand... years, my Father," she said in between gasps._

_God's face darkened. "I did not know of this."_

_Gabriel stopped crying at once. Her dark brown eyes went wide in her pale face. "But, Father, did the Metatron not tell You? He always told us that You knew."_

_For the space of a heartbeat, the look on God's face was so terrible that Gabriel could not look upon Him. She cast down her eyes and trembled in fear._

_He rose, however, and tipped up His eldest daughter's chin. He smiled at her and said, "Worry yourself no more about this, My dear child. I will see to it that things are set right again. A single act is all it will take. Hush now, and wipe your eyes."_

_She did so, and smiled back at Him. "Thank you, my Father. Thank you."_

_–––_

Always His favourites, and His favourites still.

He reached into the Void, and searched for the shreds of soul of the being once known as Anthony J. Crowley.

Restitution would be made.


	2. Chapter One: Unrequited Reunion

_Just so you know, 'Broken Treasure' has its own soundtrack. If you're interested in hearing it, you can find a link on my profile page._

_–––_

_Chapter One_

_Unrequited Reunion_

_–––_

Crowley opened his eyes, and screamed. Phantom pains from the holy water that had killed him washed over his body, and it was a full minute before his near-blank mind caught on to the fact that there wasn't really any pain at all. As he lay there without moving, slowly readjusting to reality, he began to be able to think again. And his first thought was:

_Aziraphale? Angel?_

He carefully raised himself on his elbow, and looked around, confused and bewildered. Not a living thing in sight, only grass and trees and open sky. He blinked. Wasn't he supposed to be in London? He looked down at his own body: naked and unmarred. But... that couldn't be. The memories were crystal clear. A group of low-ranking angels had attacked him; he would have fought them off with ease, but he had not known of the secret weapon they carried.

A shiver wracked his frame. He remembered the burning, the dissolving, the writhing in a kaleidoscope of sheer agony. The one thing that had not been spinning before his eyes had been another pair of eyes, blue and wide-open and filled with endless horror. He also remembered looking deep into those eyes before...

What?

Falling asleep?

No. Not falling asleep. Dying. Being destroyed. The ultimate end. But then, how was he still here?

To his astonishment, he found that he didn't care one whit. Where he was, _how_ he still was, none of this mattered. Other things were important now.

He got up, snapped his fingers, and was once more attired in an impeccable Armani outfit, complete with stylish sunglasses. It was then that he noticed the piece of paper under a rock at his feet. He stooped, picked it up, and unfolded it. There were two words on it, written in golden ink, in the tongue of Heaven and Hell.

_Find him._

He nodded, and the paper turned to ashes between his fingertips. There was a grim smile on his face as he started to walk.

It appeared that Someone, Somewhere, agreed with him.

–––

After an hour or so, near the middle of the day, he reached a tiny village. Just some houses and shops arranged around a square, with a few narrow streets leading away from it. Nothing unusual about it, and Crowley would simply have passed right through, had his eye not fallen on an ancient-looking ruin at the edge of the village, some distance away from the other buildings. For some reason he could not explain, the sight filled him with deep dread, yet he was irresistibly drawn to it. There was _something_...

As soon as his fingers touched the worn stones, it was as though an electric shock went through him. Standing in the middle of the ruined walls, he could still feel it. The place vibrated of Aziraphale, shouted of him. But something had happened here, a long time ago, something dark and cold. Traces of it went tingling along his every nerve like a maddening fever-pulse, and he felt himself start to panic. _Where_ was his...

"Young man, get away from there! That place is cursed!"

He spun round. It was an old woman who had spoken, looking at him with fear in her eyes. "Young man, you have to get away from there! It's dangerous!"

Reluctantly, even though the fading of the fever was a relief, he walked out from amid the stones, asked her, "Cursed? Dangerous? How do you mean?"

Still looking frightened, her voice low, she answered, "A very, very long time ago, that place, a bookshop I believe it was, was the home of one who was the Guardian Angel of this village - now, now, no need to start shaking, young man! But something very, very bad happened to him, no-one ever found out what. He set fire to the building, and left us all behind. Since then, everyone has shunned the remains, for as I said, we believe the place is cursed." She frowned, concerned. "Why, whatever is the matter, dearie? You look as white as a sheet! Do you need to sit down, have a drink of water?"

Crowley hurriedly composed himself, wiping his brow and forcing himself to stop trembling. "N-no, thank you, I'll be fine. Do you..." His voice failed him; he took a deep breath and tried again, "Do you know where this person is now?"

"What makes you think he's still alive?"

Crowley felt his blood turn to ice. "You mean... he_ isn't_?"

The old woman sighed. "Well, yes. Yes, he's still alive. It's just not something people around here like to talk about."

Crowley had heard nothing beyond the 'still alive'. _He's still on Earth. Thank Someone, he's still on Earth._ "And do you know where he is or not?"

She shook her head. "No, that I don't, not exactly, anyway."

"But you do know something?" he pressed, straining himself to keep down his mounting impatience.

"Oh, only a few old rumours. But tell me, dearie, just to satisfy an old woman's curiosity, why are you so interested in finding him?"

"Never you mind why I am," snapped Crowley, fully at the end of his tether. "_Where is he?_"

The woman quickly stepped back, frightened. A burly-looking man grabbed Crowley's arm from behind. "Now listen here you, don't you go threatening old ladies like that."

A glare from behind black lenses, a hiss, and the man reeled back as though he'd stepped on a viper. Crowley turned back to the woman. "Well?" he asked, his voice dangerously calm.

Looking terrified now, she replied, "I... They say he still roams the countryside, to the north of here I think, but I'm not sure, we never see him around here anymore."

With a quick nod, Crowley began to walk away, but stopped, turned back to the old woman. "Please don't call me dearie, or anything like that. That word is not for you to say." With that, he quitted the village, leaving everyone staring after him, and the old woman muttering to herself about odd rude young folk.

–––

Daylight was beginning to fade, and a light rain was drizzling down.

He saw him from afar, and immediately knew him. His own angel. He'd always been unmistakeable, since the beginning of time.

Crowley dashed forward at a speed he would not have believed possible, and closed the distance between them in less than thirty seconds. With a grin that was threatening to split his face in two, he clapped his hand on the other's shoulder, and spun him round.

Only to cry out at what he saw.

The same face, the exact same face, but ravaged beyond recognition. Old, old grey eyes stared at, no, _through_ him, dull and lifeless as tarnished lead. They could still see, Crowley realised, aghast, but they no longer grasped...

...anything.

"Angel," Crowley gasped. "Angel, what's happened to you?"

No response.

"Angel! Answer me! Don't you recognise me? It's me, Crowley!" _Just how long have I been gone?_

Still nothing, not even a blink of the eyes to acknowledge his presence.

"You bloody bastard, _answer_ me! What's wrong with you?" Crowley shouted, shaking the other like a rag doll. Finally, in desperation, he struck him across the face. He might as well have lashed out at a wooden image for all the reaction he received.

Crowley's arms dropped to his sides, and he merely stared. At last, after what felt like a century, he stepped closer to Aziraphale, and took his face between his hands, covering the mark he'd left on the other's cheek.

"Oh, angel," he whispered, though he knew by now that he would get no answer, "what's happened to you?"

"Tha's not an angel no more, mate," said a scratchy voice from somewhere to the left.

Crowley let go of Aziraphale, and turned toward the source of the voice. A low-ranking demon, a mere imp, was standing some ten feet away, leering at them.

"What do you mean? What else would he be?" Crowley asked, taking a few steps forward.

The imp sniggered. "'E was a right 'oly one once, they say," he replied, "but 'e's one of _us_, now."

The world shattered like slow-motion glass, recombined itself all wrong, turned white, then black, then grey. Through a misty haze, Crowley peered at the imp.

"..._what?_"

"You 'eard me. 'E spat in the face of God, an' Fell. The Broken One, we calls 'im," he said, gesturing toward Aziraphale with his cigarette. "Been like that for, oh, a thousand years now, I reckon."

It took several moments for Crowley's devastated mind to fully seize the meaning of those words. When it did, he screamed in horror, and whirled round to face his angel, who was still just standing there, completely oblivious to all around him.

Crowley's heart was wrenched so sharply that it was a physical pain, like a knife being twisted slowly between his ribs. He wanted to run to his angel (angel?), take him in his arms and hide him, but he found that he was paralysed, feet rooted to the ground. _No_, he mouthed, for his voice was gone, strangled. _No..._ But the truth was in those dead eyes.

The imp bent down and picked up a rock. "Want me to throw this at 'im?" he asked, idly tossing it up and down. "It won't exactly scare 'im off, 'cos 'e don't feel anythin', but it's fun to do. Kind of like a sport with us."

From grey, to crimson.

A violent spasm shook Crowley. Only now did he see the red marks on Aziraphale's face and neck, bright red, even through the dancing mist.

Scars. Wounds.

Crowley did not hear the imp's next words over the rushing of blood in his ears. His vision was flickering, and for one terrible second, he thought he was going to faint, for the first time in his existence.

Until that rock struck Aziraphale's temple.

Searching for another projectile, the imp said, "See 'ow much fun it is? Why not join in? Bet you 'e'd just stand there till 'e was stoned to..."

He never got to finish his sentence. Crowley had sprung at him, blind mad with fury. There was a sickening crack, and the imp lay very still on the ground, his spine snapped in half.

Crowley, mercifully numb inside and out, for now, walked back to Aziraphale, and took his hand, studiously ignoring how limp it felt in his. "Let's get you out of here," he said, and moved off, Aziraphale following docilely behind.


	3. First Interlude: Prophetess

_First Interlude_

_Prophetess_

_–––_

She was running swiftly on delicate, sandalled feet through the streets and lanes of Heaven's Capitol, aided occasionally by a beat from one hundred and forty pairs of wings, until she reached the Central Avenue, and found the one she sought.

She leapt atop a pillar, displaying the full splendour of her wings, and called out, "Hear me now, all ye Hosts of Heaven, Low and High! Bow before the Goodness and Majesty of our Father, and rejoice in your hearts! For once again, He hath shown that He never abandons His children!"

All raised their eyes and gazed upon her in silence. For none ever spoke when the Messenger of God opened her lips, and none had seen her so beautiful since the Annunciation itself. She shone bright as a gleaming star, and her voice, normally so quiet, rang through the vastness of Heaven like a clarion.

"Hate falls before love, ice before fire. Two souls bound in one may never be torn apart, lest they both perish. And behold! in His infinite Mercy, our Father hath forged anew the first link of that golden chain, and by it all wounds shall be healed. I see, ah, I see! White is black and black is white, and both to Him are dear!"

Now, her face elated almost to the point of madness, she flung out an arm and pointed straight at him who stood before the pillar. "Hark ye, also, Highest of High Ones, for to our Father all is revealed in the end, and those who transgress in His sight shall someday know in full the weight of what they have done!" With those final words, she flew off and up to the stars, and her laughter, like joyous thunder, rolled in her wake. And one out of the Host spread his own wings and followed her.

Long, long after the other angels had dispersed, the Metatron still stood before the pillar, motionless as stone.


	4. Chapter Two: Broken Wings

_Chapter Two_

_Broken Wings_

_–––_

Night. The merciful numbness was fading fast.

They sat facing each other from opposite sides of the tiny cabin, Crowley because his legs would no longer support him, Aziraphale because Crowley had _pushed_ him down.

The light of the moon, filtered, a little, by the tree branches, fell on Aziraphale's face through the glassless window. Once, this would have made him look so silvery-beautiful as to drive Crowley absolutely to distraction, and _then_, all the wild horses in the world could not have pulled the two men apart. _Now_, it gave him the appearance of a dead man laid out for burial, and the sight made Crowley wish he could crawl into a coffin himself and slam the lid. And he would have done it, too, had it not been for a single fact that stood like a rock amid the raging chaos in his mind: Aziraphale was here, and needed him.

But.

What could Crowley _do_, even on the most basic level? He had cleaned the wound on Aziraphale's temple, but he could not actually heal it. Demons could heal themselves, as well as other creatures when they wanted to, but he didn't think his healing powers would work on... angels...

Except this wasn't an angel anymore, was it?

Crowley's swirling thoughts screeched to a halt, and crashed down into stark reality. Not an angel anymore. Not his _Aziraphale_ anymore. Everything, _everything_ was gone from those eyes. An empty, soulless shell.

Part of Crowley wanted to tear down the cabin door and run screaming into the darkness. Fortunately, it was the other, bigger part that acted. He lunged forward, grabbed Aziraphale's collar, pulled him, a dead weight, against his chest, almost tight enough to crack the other's ribs, and buried his face in golden curls, threaded with silver.

Where was the Aziraphale he had so often had dinner with, had roaring drunk discussions with, tasted the kisses of, laughed with, argued with, fed ducks with, caressed in his arms at night? Gone? _Gone?_

_NO!_

It could not be, he thought, as he smoothed away the wounds and scars, closed his beloved's unblinking eyes and pressed his lips to the eyelids. Somewhere in there, _his_ Aziraphale still lived, he knew it, he felt it, it had to be true. Simply had to be.

Still, that night, as he sat sleepless with his angel-no-more leaned against him, he could not quite make himself believe it.

–––

Dawn.

Crowley woke up at the prickings of early-morning sunlight. Hm. He must have drifted off anyway. He looked down, and found that Aziraphale had opened his eyes again during the night.

Crowley's mind felt strange, as though all capacity for deep thought had been temporarily frozen. Or rather, as though his thoughts were constantly skirting the edges of some pit of nightmare, to fall into which would be to go mad. Practical matters, yes, those were safe. Practical matters he could handle. And mindless babbling, that was good too.

"All right, ang..." _Slipping, slipping, don't fall in._ "All right, Aziraphale, I'm going out for a moment, but I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." He carefully wormed his way out from behind the blond, and propped him up against the wall. Then he got up, opened the door, walked out and closed it, all without looking back.

–––

When he came back in, about half an hour later, Aziraphale was still sitting just as he had left him. Crowley pulled him up, and led him out by the wrist. Half a mile further into the forest, they came to a small, round pond, in the middle of a clearing.

"Can't believe it took me so long to find this. All right then, let's get you cleaned up; it's been long overdue, I can tell. Of course, an..." _Don't!_ "...supernatural beings can't get _really_ filthy if they don't do anything, but still, it won't hurt."

A glance at the pond, and it went from dawn-chilly to pleasantly warm. Crowley removed Aziraphale's clothes, careful to touch him as little as possible, -_ Oh, that warm, white skin... Don't, blessit! _- and manoeuvred him into the water. Miracling some soap and a washcloth, he washed him tenderly, all over, as though he'd been a child. Ah, if Crowley's superiors could see him now, they'd have a collective seizure. When he was done, Crowley said, "Now you just sit there and soak a little, while I take a look at your clothes." He shuffled through the pile of, unlike Aziraphale had been, _decidedly_ filthy clothing, and picked out the shirt. "What have you been doing with this thing? Look at these two rips in the back. How did... How..."

_Aaaaaggghhhh!_

And there he went, straight off the brink. He could imagine perfectly well where those rips had come from. Magnificent wings, white and pure as virgin snow, more so, spreading out to their full span, and slowly... fading... to black.

No. For Someone's sake, no. Aziraphale, his Aziraphale, the very definition of an angel, as far as Crowley had been concerned... No longer one. A demon, now, just like him. He could feel his own mind sliding closer and closer to a different edge, one belonging to a chasm out of which said mind would never be able to crawl. At the last moment, it frantically skittered away from that edge, and locked the lethal truth behind steel doors. It could not be denied, but it could be ignored, pushed away, for as long as possible.

Crowley opened his eyes, and found that he was on his hands and knees in the dirt, and that he had torn the shirt right in two. No matter; those clothes had been nearly worn to threads anyway. With a wave of his hand, they all disappeared, and he went back to where Aziraphale was still sitting in the water. With a smile, Crowley ran his fingers through the wet curls. "Better, angel? Right, let's get you dried off and dressed." He bent down low, and fairly lifted Aziraphale out of the pond. He set him on his feet, summoned a towel, and dried him off, rubbing at the skin till it turned pink. For half a second, he considered putting his angel in slightly more modern clothes, jeans perhaps, but immediately dismissed the idea. It would not have been the same. Another snap of his fingers, and there it was, tartan and tweed, the way it had always been. The way it was _supposed_ to be.

"Now then, isn't that so much nicer? Let's get something to eat and drink. It'll do us both good. Come." He took Aziraphale's hand, this time, and began leading him back to the path out of the woods.

–––

Something told Crowley that this was the worst possible choice he could have made, but he still had no idea where in England he was exactly, and therefore it was the only place he could go.

With his arm around Aziraphale's shoulder, he once again approached the tiny village, carefully keeping himself between his angel and the burnt-out bookshop, when...

"See? There they are! I knew it!"

...they were stopped by a whole gaggle of villagers, led, predictably, by the burly man, with the old crone from before standing some distance behind him.

"Get away from here, you," the man said to Crowley. "That one," pointing to Aziraphale, "is not someone we want to see. We have no use here for that cursed creature, who abandoned us while we still needed him."

Crowley pulled Aziraphale more tightly against him. "Cursssed, you call him?" he asked with deadly softness.

"Aye, cursed!" the crone spoke up. "I told you, young man, when you stood in that bookshop," a murmur from the villagers, "that it was dangerous, and so is he! He's a monster now, and will bring bad luck on us! We don't want him here."

"You heard the old lady," shouted one of the villagers, armed with a club. "Get that thing out of here, or we'll be rid of him once and for all!"

To the seven winds with the caution of a lifetime. The almost-instinct to hide his true nature was completely lost under the hellfire-hot _rage_ that consumed him. He would have liked to tear every single one of those unfeeling dogs limb from limb, but in the end, he did something far more effective. Deliberately, very calmly and deliberately, he raised his left hand to his face... and removed his sunglasses.

"Try," he hissed. "Jussst _try_ and touch him."

Golden-yellow reptilian eyes scorched their way through every one of the villagers, and every one of the villagers blanched and backed away. "Demon!" they cried. "Demon!"

The old woman raised a quivering arm. "Beasts! Why have you come to plague us? We do not deserve this. We are honest, god-fearing folk and..."

"Keep ssssilent!" he snarled. "You are in no possssition to talk to me about God or Sssssatan; I know far more about the both of them than you ever will. Now," and he put his sunglasses back on, along with his customary cool exterior, "where's the inn in this place?"

One of the villagers pointed mutely at the largest building on the square. No-one would get in the pair's way now; they had no wish to stir the volcano they saw was still smouldering.

–––

"Come on, angel," said Crowley, his mouth full, "you ought to have fome of thif. I know it'f not nearly," he swallowed, "not nearly as good as what they used to serve us in London," the landlord was too petrified to dare be offended, "but it could be a whole lot worse. Try it. Wouldn't want you to lose that pudge, after all, eh?" patting Aziraphale's belly.

Nothing. The plate remained untouched.

Crowley put down his fork; his appetite had completely vanished. He took a deep breath, and called to the landlord, "You! A room for two, and a bottle of your finest wine!"

–––

The wine had gone from reddish vinegar to a first-class Bordeaux vintage in the blink of an eye. So far, the bottle had been drained five times in one hour. All by Crowley. He was still remarkably lucid, considering. And he did _not_ like it.

"D'you sssheee, ainnzhull, wha' you're doin' t'me? 'Sssh a da... _blessshed_ nassshty thing t'do. How'm I ssshupposshed t'enjoy gettin' plassshtered wivout _you_ joinin' in, hm?" He took another swig, rested Aziraphale's head on his shoulder, and leaned his own against it. Two wine-scented tears trickled down his cheeks. "Mi... Misssh you. Lookit me, drinkin' m'ssshelf into a coma, jusssh sssho I c'n per... _pre_tend you're ssshtill you. An' it'sssh not workin', you cheat! Hurtsssh, hurtsssh me sssho badly... Nee' more wine."

He tipped back the bottle, drank it dry, and tossed it against a wall, where it shattered. Wrapping both arms around Aziraphale and nuzzling his neck, he slurred, "'Ssssh cheatin', hear me? Want you... _you_ back now, Azzz'rafail... You get back out here or, or I'll..."

At this point, he happened to glance out the window, and was at once stone-sober, through no act of his own. There was nothing unusual to be seen, only a few twinkling stars in the clear night sky, yet he got up from the edge of the bed, crept stealthily over to the window, and closed the curtains. Then he went and lay down on the bed, pulling Aziraphale down with him, and drew the covers over them both, fully dressed.

Keeping Aziraphale's face hidden in the hollow of his shoulder, Crowley didn't take his eyes off that window for one second, all through the night.

–––

The next morning, very early, the people of the village saw the snake-eyed man and his empty-eyed companion leave. They would never speak of either one of them again.


	5. Chapter Three: Kisses May Cut

_Chapter Three_

_Kisses May Cut_

_–––_

They'd been back together for over a year now, taking their time, slowly drifting from one place to the next, gradually working their way south towards London.

There had been a few run-ins, at first, with imps and other lesser demons, but those hadn't lasted long. When word had spread of the massacres that always resulted from such encounters, the creatures were smart enough to run when they saw the pair coming. For to harm, or even to approach the Broken One now, meant certain death, they knew.

–––

London. Exactly as he remembered it.

In the beginning, it had astonished Crowley just how little things had changed during his long absence. He was aware that two millennia had gone by, yet technology, culture, society, all had remained stagnant. There were still petrol-driven cars, television sets, CDs, books, diseases, wars... He could not fathom it. The mortal world had always evolved so quickly, and now... it all seemed so _dead_.

And then he realised that his age-old, never-formulated suspicions had been correct. For six thousand years, he and Aziraphale had been the only constant things on earth, eternal and immutable, forever opposed and forever joined. It was this very immutability and unbreakable connection that had driven the world forward on its course, purely for the sake of contrast. In the face of the everlasting, what is there to do but change? Nothing, as far as humanity had been concerned: run, jump, build, break, up, down, left, right, never pause, never stop, go, go, _go_!

But when the two of them had been torn apart, there _was_ no more contrast, no infuriating eternity, left to goad the world on, and so it had simply... given up and halted.

_Well_, thought Crowley, sitting on a small terrace on their first day back in the metropolis, a martini in his hand and his arm tucked firmly around Aziraphale's waist, _let it be that way then. Let the ancient wheels rust and turn to powder, I don't care. One day it will be different... when my angel wakes again._ He completely ignored the nagging little voice that kept saying, _If..._

_–––_

"Mmmm... No, sorry, this isn't what I'm looking for, either."

Martin, the salesman, was getting more and more irritated. Was there simply no _pleasing_ this man? They'd been wandering around the showroom for two hours now, he'd been shown the most wonderful cars, and every single time he'd just cock his head to one side, purse his lips and say, "No, sorry, on to the next," or something like that. And the supremely annoying thing was that he actually seemed to be _enjoying_ wasting Martin's time. That little grin he got on his face every now and then... Oh, never mind. This man looked quite well-to-do, with that sharp suit and jaunty air, and they might get a decent sale out of him, if Martin played it right. With his standard ingratiating smile, which did not quite manage to disguise the sharpness of his tone, Martin said, "My sincerest apologies, sir, but I'm afraid you've seen everything we have. But surely now, at least one of these fine vehicles must be to your liking?"

There it was, that damnable grin again. "No, to be quite honest, none of these are my style. But then again, I thought as much when we walked in."

_Why, that smug, infuriating..._

The dark-haired man turned to his companion, and his grin softened into a smile. "What do you think, Ezra, angel? Should we go on somewhere else?" The other did not reply, just kept staring off into space.

Martin fidgeted, and for one moment his unease was greater than his exasperation. There was something... odd going on here. That those two had been walking arm in arm the whole time was one thing, though not quite to Martin's liking, but... What was the matter with that blond? He hadn't said a single word, or even looked at anything, since he'd come in. His eyes were hidden behind heavily-tinted glasses and were therefore hardly visible, but there was something not quite right about them; Martin wasn't sure he wanted to know what. Besides that, the two men formed a distinctly bizarre couple. One was young, quite tall, dark-haired, stylishly dressed, and, judging by the way Frances the receptionist and Agatha the cleaning woman kept ogling him, pansy or not, extremely good-looking. The other was shorter, fattish, middle-aged enough to have lines on his forehead and crow's feet and a grey hair here and there, and dressed in a horribly frumpy tartan-and-tweed outfit. Martin couldn't help but curl his lip at the sight. Why would they be...

"Exssscusssse me," said the black-haired man in a voice verging on liquid nitrogen, "what are you sssstaring at?"

Martin jumped, and realised that his expression had been noticed. The glare from the blond man's partner, even from behind those sunglasses, was fierce enough to make Martin give at the knees. His casual-salesman veneer failed him, and he stuttered, "Um, ah... N-nothing, I..."

"I don't like it," and liquid nitrogen would have seemed warm in comparison, "when people look at my angel like that."

Martin stumbled back, and fell against one of the cars, eyes nearly starting from his head. The air of sheer _menace_ radiating from the black-haired man held him paralysed, mesmerising him like the eyes of a cobra, and for one heart-stopping moment, Martin felt sure he was going to die.

Then the man checked himself, and turned once more to his companion. "Come on, Ezra. We're leaving. We'll find a different dealer, one that has Bentleys." And the couple walked right out, the dark man idly tapping his fingernails on the white hood of a sports car as he passed it. Martin literally fainted with relief.

Later that day, through a horrible accident involving a demonstration of the white sports car, Martin permanently lost the use of both legs. He was fired on the spot for damaging company property, and would spend the rest of his days in a shelter for the poor.

–––

"Well, sir? Have you been able to come to a decision?"

The young man shifted his weight to his other foot, and answered, "I don't know. These are all nice cars, but I was looking for something a bit more... classical."

Andrew, of Barclay's Bentleys, smiled at this. He always loved it when a customer expressed interest in older models. "We do also have several second-hand vehicles, in another hall. If you'd care to step this way, gentlemen?"

He ushered the two men into the next room, and watched the young man's face promptly fall in disappointment. Looking around himself, Andrew couldn't really blame him. These older models _were_ very much like the new ones, it could not be denied. Still, they did have some of the distinction conferred by age. It was the best Andrew could offer. Except, of course...

No, never mind. His boss would go berserk if Andrew spoke to a customer about _that_ one. Not meant for sale. He sighed. "Well then, sir, I'm afraid that there's nothing more I can..."

"Wait," the man interrupted him. "What's behind that door over there?"

_Oh, no._ "Why, nothing, sir."

The other shook his head without taking his eyes off the door. "No. There's something behind it, I can feel it. Show it to us."

Andrew bit his lip. "Sir, I'm sorry, but that area is off-limits to customers."

"Show. Us. _Now_," the man said, biting off each word.

After a moment's reflection, Andrew decided he'd very much rather have to deal with his boss than with this man. He took out his keys, and unlocked the door. "As you wish, sir, but I really don't think... Oh well, you'll see for yourself."

The three men entered a smallish, spotless garage, just large enough for the one, sheet-covered car it contained. At the sight of it, the young man's mouth fell open, and he just stood there, gaping.

"Sir? Are you all right?"

"Remove that sheet," his customer said in an oddly strangled voice. "Right now."

Andrew complied - in for a penny, in for a pound, after all - and was himself reduced to gaping when the young man let out an inarticulate whoop of delight, grabbed his blond partner's arms, and started dancing for joy, so fast that the blond man, who wasn't trying to keep up, almost fell over.

"Um, sir? I... do hope you understand that that vehicle is not for sale? And really shouldn't be touched?" a highly disconcerted Andrew said to the dark-haired man, who was currently trying to embrace the car.

"Then you'll just have to _make_ it for sale! There is absolutely no way I'm leaving without it! Name your price, and you shall have it!"

Right. His boss was going to kill him. Unless... Andrew made up and named a price, a sum so dazzling that he was certain it would scare both men straight out of the building. He was astonished when the dark-haired man simply reached into his coat pocket, and handed over the money in cash. In a daze, Andrew took it. Strange. He could have sworn that pocket had been empty a moment before. Oh, well. He was probably mistaken. One couldn't simply make money out of thin air, after all.

"Open that garage door!" the man ordered Andrew. Then, taking his partner in a tight hug, he cried, "We have it back, Ezra, can you believe it? We have our old Bentley back, ha_ha_!" and proceeded to shove the blond into the car.

Their_ old Bentley? What? It's two-thousand years old!_ Andrew opened his mouth to say precisely that, when with a wave of his hand towards the salesman, the young man jumped behind the wheel and drove off, even though, as Andrew knew very well, there wasn't a drop of petrol in the tank. He shook his head, and walked out of the small garage. Already he was starting to wonder why he'd even gone in there.

That afternoon, Andrew had absolutely nothing to say to his boss's mad ranting about how a priceless ancient car had been stolen. He couldn't remember any such car ever having existed.

About a year later, as it happened, Andrew succeeded his boss as the proprietor of John Barclay's Bentleys. Needless to say, he was never again hard-up after that.

–––

Ah, the Ritz. A secluded little table for two in a conveniently-but-not-coincidentally empty restaurant (a little "persuasion" was all it took), soft music in the background, a bottle of fine wine and two white candles on the table, and in the centre, a vase with a single red rose. All the romantic nonsense Aziraphale had adored.

Crowley gazed at him, and felt tears begin to burn, as achingly vivid memories played before his mind's eye. Memories of sparkling, impossibly blue eyes riveted on his own, of a radiantly happy smile, suddenly dissolving into helpless laughter at something Crowley had said.

How good it had always been, to laugh together.

Memories, also, of a beautifully plump hand on top of his, of their fingers interlacing, of the dancing brightness of those eyes softening into something... _holy_. And of that one time Crowley had pulled him into a kiss over the table, and Aziraphale in his own eagerness accidentally tipped over one of the candles and set fire to the tablecloth. They would often talk about that afterwards, laughing themselves sick.

But memories were only that: images of things past. _Now_, that smile and that laughter were gone, vanished like the dust of dead flowers in the wind, and the only sparkle in those staring grey eyes came from the flames of the candles. If Crowley wanted that hand on his, he would have to slip his own underneath. As for a kiss... He'd probably break down if he tried it. Crowley wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. Back together for over a year now and still...

"Aziraphale," he whispered. "Aziraphale, why can't you remember? Remember how happy we were, all the things we did together? We hardly ever spent a day apart, and now," a whisper more terrible than any shriek, "you don't even recognise me anymore! What has become of you, of _us_? What's _going_ to become of us? Oh, if only..."

It was no use. No _use_. What was the point in talking when he wasn't even heard? He planted his elbows on the table, and leaned his head in his hands.

Things had been so good and sweet, once. It was right after that candle incident that they had gone to St James's Park and, for the first time out in the open, had...

Crowley raised his head, eyes wide. St James's Park, after midnight, in the spring. Not a soul around. And there, right there, beneath the canopy of trees, on the cool, soft grass...

He sprang up and, without a word, dragged Aziraphale outside. Never mind the bill; they hadn't even touched their food anyway. Never mind the stars this time, either: the trees would hide them. Car doors were slammed shut, and the Bentley roared off into the night.

–––

Aziraphale could not see and could not hear. Aziraphale would have to feel.

_This_, Crowley thought as he slowly undressed his angel and himself, shivering at the contact of familiar pale skin, _this will work. We loved it both so much, this union. It'll call him back, to himself and to me._

Wrong.

Warm, lingering kisses to a face of cold marble. A Serpent in the guise of a man, coiled round a man in the guise of a statue. Long, tapering fingers gliding slowly over unconscious flesh. Teeth, sharper than any human's, lightly nipping a white neck, something that, once, would have caused gasps, moans, an arching of the back. Now, no response, and Crowley could go no further.

It was like... It was like making love to a still-warm corpse!

A still-warm corpse.

And was Aziraphale anything else, these days?

Slowly, eyes shut and teeth clenched, Crowley sat up, his angel beneath him, and _screamed_. It was such a scream as the denizens of Hell gave from the heart of their torment, and the few humans who heard it, far away, huddled close in terror.

When it was over, Crowley collapsed, weeping bitterly, his hands balled into fists, nails digging into the palms and ripping them to loose skin and blood.

"It doesn't matter, Aziraphale, do you hear? It makes no difference," he said after a while, holding on to his angel, still his angel, as tightly as he could. "Know me, or not, live, or be dead in life, I am not leaving you, ever. I'll stay by your side and care for you until time itself comes to an end."

Still twined around his dead-eyed dear one, Crowley fell asleep. He couldn't see it like that, of course, and it was gone from the other's face by morning.

One tear.


	6. Second Interlude: Two Before One

_Second Interlude_

_Two Before One_

_–––_

"Now do you see what it is that you have done?" asked a quiet female voice, laced with steel thread.

Two implacable pairs of eyes, one dark brown, the other bright green, gazed up at a golden face. The owner of said face tightened his hold on the arms of his seat, whether from anger or from apprehension it was impossible to tell, and exclaimed, "What right or cause have you to speak thus to me? Have you forgotten who I am? Have you forgotten that I am our Lord's most faithful servant, and that everything I do, I do to serve Him? And you, Archangels, second in rank only to me, you would upbraid me for the lot of a Fallen Principality and a miserable demon caitiff?" His voice had risen till he was all but shouting now.

"We have _not_ forgotten these things, milord Metatron, or who we are," the green-eyed man said icily, "but neither have we forgotten _what_ we are. We are angels to the very core, and the sight of so much anguish, especially in our brothers, cuts us to the bone. Is it not the same for you, in truth?"

The Metatron gave a single shake of the head. "No. I cannot possibly feel aught but contempt for two beings who would commit such blasphemy as to consort with one another, even in the face of their true natures. And if you can, and can call them brothers," he said, rising with a sneer on his magnificent face, "then I despise you too."

"Forbear, Metatron!" the woman cried out. "What right or cause have _you_ to speak thus to _us_? Who are you, who is anyone to condemn love, of any kind? Upon love is all of Heaven built, our Father is Love Incarnate, and if it may flow to life even between an angel and a demon, what finer proof could you ask for of its eternal majesty?"

"How _dare_ you presume to teach me? How _dare_ you even stand before me? Have you not done me enough damage already, Gabriel, with your lunatic prophetic transports in the heart of our City? How much further do you intend to vex and gibe me? I warn you, I'll not stand for it! And you, Michael," turning to the man, "who actually followed her after, what more have _you_ to say?"

"Very little. Only this I ask: that you step away from that throne and down from that dais, so that we may speak with each other eye to eye, equal... as we are."

There was a long silence. Finally, the Metatron did indeed descend the steps to his throne, and stood before the two Archangels. "Very well then, I have complied. What else is there that you wish to say to me?"

Looking up at the tall, golden angel's face, so haughty and impassive, Michael sighed, and slowly said, "Nothing, I believe, that you would understand. Come, Gabriel," taking her hand, "let us go."

"Indeed," linking her fingers in his, "there is nothing more we can do here. Not now anyway."

The pair turned, and walked calmly through the gilded doors, out of the Metatron's palace, leaving him standing there alone, seething.

And, suddenly, afraid.


	7. Chapter Four: Set My Heart Alight

_Chapter Four_

_Set My Heart Alight_

_–––_

Crowley loathed the thought of what he was about to do. It was cruel, it was nasty, it might do untold damage, and it had sickened him the moment he'd conceived it. But there was no helping it. He _had_ to know.

Fifty years had gone by since they'd met again. Fifty years of patient, steadily rising despair, because Aziraphale truly _would not change_: still docile, lifeless, and lightless, without a glint of recognition for Crowley, or of interest in anything else. Crowley was seriously starting to wonder whether his presence made any difference at all. Hence the experiment.

They were alone on a country road, the heat of a summer evening beating down upon them, the Bentley parked a short distance away. Crowley embraced Aziraphale from behind, kissed his cheek and neck, and said, quite calmly and matter-of-factly, "Well, Aziraphale, this is it then. I've wasted enough of my time on you. I'm not getting anywhere, and quite frankly, I'm tired of it. So in other words, I'm leaving you. You're on your own again now. Farewell."

He let go, and went to stand some fifteen feet away, out of Aziraphale's direct line of sight. The poisonous taste of his own words, all lies, lingered on his tongue, making him want to spit. He'd sooner _drink_ holy water than break the vows he'd made, but he had to see how this played out. The deception had to be perfect. What would Aziraphale do?

Aziraphale did nothing, at first. Then, after a few seconds of standing stock-still, he began to tremble, more and more, till he was shaking as with a palsy. As Crowley watched with boundless joy and endless pity, his angel slowly lifted his arms, still shaking, his fingers spread out like a blind man's, vainly groping for the support that was no longer there. After half a minute of this, he froze, swayed a little from side to side, and fell forward, like a plant cut at the root.

Crowley caught him before he could hit the ground. For a few blessed moments, Aziraphale clung to him like a baby, plump fingers digging painfully into a white shirt and the tanned flesh beneath. Then it was over, and he lapsed back into his usual apathetic state.

Never once in all his years had Crowley hated himself as much as he did now. In a heated whisper, as he held Aziraphale cradled against him, "Aziraphale, angel, my only one, I didn't mean it, do you hear, I'd sooner kill myself again, I'll never, never leave you, haven't I sworn it, forgive me, forgive me, oh, how I despise myself, forgive me, I lied, but I had to be sure you knew me... and you do." Indeed, it had been proven. Part of Aziraphale, deep, deep down, was more than conscious that his lover was there, with him.

Mournfully happy, Crowley wiped the cold sweat off his angel's brow, kissed his forehead, raised him, and hurried him back to the car. He was suddenly filled with a very different kind of anxiety. Night was approaching, and Aziraphale _must not be_ out in the open when the stars appeared. Because the consequences... Well.

The Bentley had soon vanished on the horizon. Nothing had remained behind, save for a few unnoticed tears in the dust of the road.

–––

At one point during those fifty years, Crowley had started talking to Aziraphale. He'd always done that, of course, but this was different. Where before he'd only spoken of things that affected them directly and in the moment they were spoken of, now there was no limit to his topics.

It had started with a few unconnected, fairly meaningless remarks here and there, about the landscape ("Pretty ruin up on that hill over there."), or about people ("Will you look at those two going at it in the middle of the street? Ha!"), about things from their past ("Not quite as good as the wine we had in France in 1861, but not bad at all."), or simply about the two of them ("You know, it's true. Tartan really _does_ suit you better than anything else."). Gradually, the remarks had become more and more frequent, till they'd developed into a steady, rambling flow of speech that never slackened. For example, one evening in their Liverpool hotel room...

"...Now that was what I call good Chinese food. Always love it when they can keep their different sauces straight. You used to be rather partial to Peking Duck, weren't you? Doesn't quite fit in with how much you enjoyed feeding the English ones at St James's Park, though. And that little waitress was quite the pretty little bird herself, don't you think? Not that she interested me, mind; there's only one person who can do that." A brief pause, as he patted Aziraphale's hand and gave it a squeeze. "She looked almost like that courtesan Kublai Khan was so fond of. We were both members of his court, you remember, for quite some time. _I_ had things easy. While you spent years begging and pleading with him to be more gentle with his new subjects, to no avail, I might add, all I had to do was drop the odd hint on effective methods of control, which he was always eager to listen to. I got five commendations for that, but you refused to speak to me for a whole century. Back then, it didn't really bother me, not like it would have later on, but I was still glad when you finally decided to forgive me. As I recall," he smiled fondly, "you looked quite fetching in those Mongolian robes. Though of course, I'd _never_ have admitted it, not to myself, and _certainly_ not to you."

Another, somewhat longer pause, then slowly, "It's almost unsettling to think just how long I'd been finding you attractive before I even came close to being aware that I did. Was it like that for you too, I wonder? Knowing you, it probably was. Ineffable, you'd have called it, with that annoying little smile you always got when you said that word. Part of the Great Ineffable Plan." He snorted, suddenly bitter. "And I suppose it was an ineffably important part of that plan to kill me off and throw an angel into his own personal Hell for a thousand years, before finally breaking that angel, _my_ angel, and _really_ sending him to Hell for _another_ thousand years?" The truth that he'd kept locked away for five decades was slowly beginning to seep through the cracks, and he didn't even know it was happening. With more and more anger, "Then they finally decide to toss you a scrap of mercy and bring me back, but of course you can't be allowed to actually know it and be happy again, oh no, we can't have that, because you're _Fallen_ now, and aren't entitled to anything as 'celestial' as loving bliss. _Heaven_ forbid!"

No snakebite could have equaled the pure venom in his voice. Aziraphale had not deserved this, did not deserve this. If those sanctimonious bastards Upstairs didn't know just how faithful and devoted Aziraphale had always, _always_ been, Crowley did. His angel had been their finest, their most loyal and best, and _this_, this was his reward. Crowley's glass shattered between his fingers, and the slivers of glass ate deep into his hand. He didn't notice.

It would almost have been better, Crowley reflected as his fist tightened and the glass bit deeper and deeper, if his angel _hadn't_ been aware of his lover's presence, if he truly _had_ been dead inside. Now, Crowley knew that Aziraphale was _not_ dead, was still very much alive somewhere, desperately unhappy and endlessly alone. He could feel himself beginning to cry, tears of sorrow, of love, of hate and rage. Why would God allow such nameless suffering if He truly was the loving Father Aziraphale had always believed Him to be, right till the end? Because Crowley didn't doubt for a moment that Aziraphale _had_ believed it, till the very instant he Fell.

For one mad, mindless second, Crowley was torn between two things: smash open the window and cry out against Heaven, come what may, or take his angel to a church, find the holy water fonts, and finish them both off, put an end to this torment. For one second only; then the fog lifted from his brain, and he was himself again, shivering, and utterly ashamed of and disgusted with himself. What kind of worthless coward _was_ he, to think such things? Aziraphale, his own dear angel, had for a thousand dragging years borne a far, far greater pain than the one Crowley was feeling now, and yet _he_ had withstood it patiently, until it finally broke him. What right had Crowley to think the way he had? None.

He shook his head, and looked at Aziraphale's blank face, and all his hate and rage, rather than strengthening as he'd expected, simply evaporated like boiled-away water. He sagged in his chair, drained and beaten, yet strangely comforted all of a sudden. After a few moments, he leaned over, and took Aziraphale's head between his hands, but not before he'd got rid of the glass and wounds. No blood on his angel, no more. He sighed and, looking deep into unseeing eyes, said, "I'm sorry. There was a time you'd have chased me all over London for even thinking something like that, and I know you still would, if you could hear me. If you'd have called it ineffable, then that's what it is, but I don't think I'll ever understand why this had to be done to you. God Himself probably didn't even have anything to do with it. It's always the underlings that are responsible, just like in Hell. Satan wasn't the real monster, I've found; he was actually rather decent. It was always Hastur, or Ligur, or Beelzebub, or someone like that. And in your case, it must have been one of the Archangels, or maybe even the Metatron, who knows? Well," another sigh, and he leaned in further for a quick kiss. "Never mind anything I said, angel. It is what it is, we'll make do with what we have, and make the best of it, together, you and I." Another kiss, longer this time and softer. Then, with only slightly forced joviality, "Right! Let's go to an Italian restaurant now, I'd like some spaghetti. Say, do you remember that time in Florence, in the late fifteenth century, when Savonarola..." Less than half an hour later, as he and Aziraphale sat side by side at a table with plates full of pasta in front of them, Crowley's good mood was back in full, even though _he_ was the only one eating, as usual.

Whenever Crowley asked himself, as he did from time to time, exactly _why_ he couldn't stop talking, he'd answer that he liked it, as indeed he did. Digging a little deeper, he would conclude that it was also a way to compensate for his angel's perpetual silence, which was also true. But he never hit the real reason.

One sentence, one word at a time, he was patiently chipping, chipping, chipping away at a wall of ice and diamond, hoping to one day, through words and near-constant touches, break it down completely, and reach the warm, golden honey that lay within.

–––

It was in a pub in Bristol, a few weeks later. They were sitting at a small table with beers in front of them, Crowley holding forth on the relative merits of British and German brews, when a third person sat down with them, uninvited.

Crowley abruptly closed his mouth, and glared at the intruder. Just what did this man think he was doing, interrupting Crowley as he was talking to his... Wait a minute, man? On closer inspection, Crowley wasn't sure whether this stranger was a man or a woman. Long-haired, no sign of a beard, unisex clothing, thin and flat-chested, a face that could be either male or female, with equal chances. But, no matter, whoever it was was going to have to leave, or else.

He was about to say so, when the stranger, who was perfectly at ease, spoke. Even the voice was gender-neutral, a bit too high for a man and a bit too low for a woman. "So, tell me, how are you holding up these days? Not too badly, by the looks of things. And how's it going with your friend here?" pointing casually at Aziraphale.

Crowley was up in arms at once. He took Aziraphale's arm, tugged him closer, and said, voice very low, "What do you mean by that? What do you know about us?"

The stranger raised his... her... _their _too-fine, too-coarse hands in defence. "Now, now, friend, no need to get all worked-up. I was just expressing a friendly interest, that's all."

"We don't need your interessst. Go away!" Crowley hissed.

"We-hellll, that's quite a hiss you have there. I suspect you're a bit angry with me right now, yes? Understandable, that, but I assure you I am no threat. You could murder me in a second if you wanted to, I know that well. He, on the other hand," pointing at Aziraphale _again_, "doesn't seem to be very active right now, does he?"

Crowley grasped the stranger's wrist, gave it a wrench, and tossed the arm back to its owner. "Don't put your handsss anywhere _near_ him. For the lasssst time, _go away_, or I _will_ murder you!"

The stranger, rubbing their wrist, went on as though Crowley hadn't said anything, but they seemed sad now. "It's a heartbreaking sight, truly. You know, there are those who think that it was a horrible, unpardonable thing that happened, so long ago. You're not alone in that, friend, believe me. I was sent here to tell you that."

Crowley was becoming truly alarmed now. "Sent here? By whom? You had better give me a sound explanation this instant, or I'll..."

"Here," said the stranger, producing a small, neatly folded note from their pocket. They placed it on the table, and pushed it towards Crowley. "My mistress wished me to give you this. She also," they added, getting up, "sends her love and her warmest regards. Goodbye, and the best to you."

"Wait! What are you saying? Who is this mistress?" But the stranger was already gone.

Hesitantly, Crowley took the note and folded it open. It was very short, written in fine calligraphy, and ran thus:

_Be strong, my friend, and steadfast._

_Things will change, I promise you._

_- G._

Crowley frowned, puzzled. He didn't know any woman whose name started with a G. He stared at the note for a long time. What in the world had just happened? Finally, he shrugged, put the note in his pocket, and promptly forgot about it and the one who had brought it. As had been intended.

–––

"Angel, we're leaving tomorrow. It's time," he said, in the darkness of their room at the Ritz.

And it really _was_ time, Crowley felt. They'd covered almost every inch of the British Isles, and while it had been enjoyable, the moment had come for them to move on.

Crowley pulled Aziraphale a little closer under the sheets, black silk pajamas rubbing against striped cotton ones. Gently stroking the other's back, Crowley smiled and said, "Won't it be nice to travel again, really travel? We used to be wanderers, you know, all over the world, together or apart, but mostly together. We never _could_ get rid of each other, no matter how hard we tried." He laughed at the memories, then smiled again, and nuzzled Aziraphale's curls, catching the old dusty-papery scent that never seemed to fade. "The world was full of wonders then, and it's full of wonders now. Let's go find them, shall we?"

–––

Early the next evening, they were on their way to the southern shore, there to take a ship and get away from England. They should have reached Dover hours ago; darkness was coming soon. Blasted tailback, just kept on going. In the end, Crowley had been forced to leave the motorway and cut straight through the country. Blessit, he should have thought of that before they even started. Oh well, nothing to do but drive on as fast as he could.

Afterwards, Crowley would never really understand just what train of thought had led to his epiphany. He had simply been describing the landscape to Aziraphale...

"... and those hills look a little mysterious, don't they, when twilight comes? Always puts me in mind of that book of old ghost stories you used to hide under your pillow. I'll bet you never quite knew where it kept disappearing to. Not bad, those stories were. Oh look, it's starting to rain ag..."

... when he looked up to the sky, and the realisation hit him like a boulder. He slammed his foot down on the brakes, and sat staring. For a moment, he seriously contemplated tearing his hair out over his own stupidity. Fifty years, _fifty years_ of nights spent in constant terror of the unthinkable. And for no reason at all. How could he have been so monstrously _blind_?

Slowly, he began to snigger, then laugh aloud, till he was all-out roaring with laughter. He jumped from the car, ran over to the other side, and dragged Aziraphale out as well, with such energy that his angel almost fell over. Crowley snatched him close, all but crushing him to his heart. He tore off his sunglasses and flung them away; looking up at the darkening clouds, he raised his voice to the heavens. The steel doors had burst open at last, and the truth had come charging out, shining brighter than the sun.

"Do you see us, down here? All this time I've spent in fear of our being torn apart again, idiot that I was! I never wanted to see it, but I do now, oh, I see it now! He's like me now, a demon, do you hear me, you sodding bastards up there? You can't separate us, because we're the same! What do you care about two lost souls like us? You didn't want him anymore because he wasn't good enough? Ha! He was better than the whole lot of you rolled into one. And you couldn't have him back even if you wanted to, because he's mine now, do you hear, mine! All mine! And I'm all his, and you're never getting him back, fuck you all! Can you see us, eh? Can you? Watch!"

He grasped hold of Aziraphale's hair, roughly pulled his head back, and kissed him full on the mouth, in the sight of the clouds, forcing those sealed lips apart with his tongue. The small non-delirious corner of his brain dimly registered that the taste was just as sweet as it had always been.

After a few minutes, he broke the kiss, and again threw his head back, a wildly triumphant grin on his face and in his golden eyes. "And shall I tell you something else?" he shouted. "No matter what he's become, I still call him my angel, because he still _is_ my angel, and do you know why _that_ is? It's because I love him, do you hear, I love him! _I love him!_"

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and laid his cheek against Aziraphale's. "I love you," he whispered as the clouds tore open and the rain came pouring down, drenching them both to the skin.

After a long time, when he finally opened his eyes and looked at his angel's dripping face, his heart stopped dead in mid-beat. When it started up again, it flew right into a flamenco against his ribs, before lodging itself firmly in his throat, and staying there.

Faintly, grey eyes still staring into vacant nothingness, ever so faintly, Aziraphale was smiling.


	8. Third Interlude: Devotion

_Third Interlude_

_Devotion_

_–––_

Dancing and twirling in a flurry of feathers, she went lightly tripping up the steps to Michael's palace. She found him standing in the entrance hall, and immediately ran to him.

"Michael! Michael!"

He looked up quickly, his face filled with deep distress. "Gabriel! Have you heard? The Old Serpent has dared to defy our Father again. He's had the audacity to fling curses at Him, at all of us. We cannot possibly tolerate... such..." He fell silent when he saw the look of radiant delight on her face.

"I know. I've heard. And we can, we shall! Oh, Michael, isn't it wonderful? Have you ever seen or heard anything more glorious in all your life?"

"_Gabriel_," he exclaimed, shocked to the heart, "have you lost your mind?"

"No, Michael, I have not!" she cried, and seized his hands in hers. "Don't you see? Gadre'el did what he did out of love, out of pure love and devotion towards Israfel. Haven't you heard, weren't you listening to him? I was, and I've seen it, felt it, and it was beautiful beyond words. And the end of it is not yet written, that I have seen as well. Oh, for the happiness in our Father's Smile! His great Blessings are upon them, He has told me so Himself, just now! Michael! What do you say to that?"

Her whole being shone with the sacred fire of her feelings, her small hands were warm on his own, and her eyes, dark and liquid and limpid and filled with the sight of things to be, were fixed unwaveringly on his. He gazed at her, spellbound. When he finally found speech again, he said, "Gabriel, your eyes have always seen more clearly than those of any other save our Father. I believe you, and my joy is as great as yours." He paused, then added, "But if you know this as well, then tell me, I pray you. What of the Metatron?"

Her smile disappeared, and she shut her eyes. Solemnly, she replied, "He is beginning to see, Michael, to see and repent. One day, as I have foretold, he will fully comprehend how much innocent suffering he has caused, see the true meaning and worth of the love our brothers shared and still share, and then his sorrow and repentance will know no bounds. Our Father will forgive him when his penance is complete." With that, she loosed her hands, turned, and began to walk away.

"Gabriel?"

She stopped, turned back. "Yes, Michael?"

"Is it true that you sent one of your subordinates to earth recently?"

She nodded. "Yes. Zizuph. Please, do not be angry at me for this. I merely wished to give him, both of them, a little faith and hope. He has forgotten it already, but he will remember again when the time comes."

He smiled at her. "You know I could never be angry with you, Gabriel."

In answer, she returned his smile, and laid her hand in his.


	9. Chapter Five: Golden Chain

_Chapter Five_

_Golden Chain_

_–––_

Time. What did it matter? Year followed year, century rolled after century, yet _they_ remained unchanged, outwardly at least. To them, it made no difference. It never had. And still the wheels did not turn, still the world stood in place, waiting, breathlessly, waiting without knowing it, for a sleeping soul to wake.

Space. Travelling, moving ever on, from the north to the south, east to west, heat to cold, and back again. From city to wilderness, desert to forest, mountain to plain, beneath sun, moon, and stars. Something they had done all their lives, an endless source of fond memories, and therefore something to be cherished and loved. And cherish and love it, Crowley did.

He was happy. As happy as he could be, at least. It was true that the pain never really went away, but it was sweet as well as bitter, and he would not have been rid of it for anything on earth, above it, or below it. His only treasure might be broken, but it was his treasure still, all the more precious, perhaps, for that very reason, and none would ever take it from him.

Whenever he had his angel near, which was always, whenever he looked into those empty grey eyes, or kissed those unmoving lips, which was often, he would realise a little more what undying love truly meant. To be linked to someone by the very soul. To be able to live without hope, or joy, or light, so long as you had them with you, because they _were_, in themselves, the hope, the joy, and the light of your life. What more could anyone ask for?

Or so Crowley sometimes thought, when he held Aziraphale in his arms at night, in the silence and the solitude. He would wrap his great black wings, downy-soft, around his lover to keep him warm, and trace the contour of that unchanging smile, or run his thumb over the small red scars on his angel's palms, which no effort of Crowley's had ever been able to heal. Then, often and often, he would kiss his angel's eyes, and pain and gladden himself by imagining that he saw flecks of blue in their depths, something he knew could never again be. Finally, he would always draw Aziraphale as close to him as he could, and fall asleep with golden curls tickling his face.

And for this, for all of this, though he never spoke it, he thanked God.

Yes, he thanked God.

–––

Nevertheless, it wasn't always easy. There were times when the dull, ever-present ache of missing Aziraphale became a throbbing anguish, hardly to be borne. This always happened after a period when Crowley had been feeling unusually good. For happy times naturally led to the memories of other, happier times, long ago, long-past, forever out of reach. Every time, he was able to overcome it, by an act of tremendous self-control, and all would be well again for a while. Still, the true, great breaking point slept ever beneath the surface, and Crowley knew how near it always was. It was only a matter of time. And so, late one evening, after a day, a night, and another day of visiting every single high-class bar on the Upper East Side, they went back to their hotel.

–––

_"... and then, would you believe it, dear, he actually said, 'Oh, n-no, sir, of course not, I'd never _dream_ of wanting to actually _buy_ a book, certainly not, not me, I was just... looking for a little shelter from the snow outside. So sorry to have bothered you, goodbye!' And he was out of the shop before the last word was out of his mouth! I don't think I've ever got rid of a customer so quickly. I do believe you've been rubbing off on me, my dear; I could swear I almost enjoyed the poor fellow's nervousness... Oh my, did I really just say that?"_

_Aziraphale dropped his head on his hand, and burst into giggles. He'd had just enough wine to be able to laugh at everything, but nowhere near enough to be actually drunk. Crowley was aware of this, and he didn't intend to let things get that far._

_All through the angel's lengthy-as-usual anecdote, delivered with a great many sweeping gestures, and with blue eyes fixed on the bookshop as the speaker savoured every scene, Crowley hadn't said a single word. He hadn't even been listening, really. All his attention had been focused on the angel himself. The way the light from the hideously old-fashioned oil lamp was caught and held by the golden hair, bringing out the few silver strands. The way those bright eyes brightened still more with merriment when Aziraphale described something he found particularly amusing. The graceful, all-unconscious poise of his body, the elegant way he held up his arm and fluttered his plump, rosy fingers when trying to recall some piddling detail. The way those soft-looking red lips moved over the words, and over straight, white teeth. And above all, the divine, well-deserved Grace that radiated from the being before him. Intangible though it was, it should have terrified Crowley, should have sent him fleeing out of the shop in a panic. But instead, it drew him, as it always had done. Drew him, a helpless moth, to a flame he knew would sooner be extinguished than cause him harm._

_Looking at Aziraphale, as he was busy wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, still giggling a little, Crowley slowly passed the tip of his forked tongue over his lips, and thought back to the decision he'd made before leaving his flat. It would be tonight. No more denial, no more nights of knuckle-biting, pillow-tearing frustration, no more hurriedly leaving Aziraphale without so much as a goodbye, the angel hurt and confused, Crowley was certain, by his best friend's coldness. No, tonight they would..._

_"Crowley? Is something wrong, my dear boy? You're being unusually quiet."_

_Crowley looked up, but did not answer. Big blue eyes in a cherubic face, the very picture of loving concern, were fixed on him. Yes, tonight. This was the final straw._

_"Crowley, dear?" Aziraphale repeated. "Are you all... Oh!"_

_One moment, Crowley had been sitting casually in his own chair, the next he was standing behind Aziraphale, and pulled the angel's head back. Gazing down on that face, with its eyes wide and its lips slightly parted in wonder, Crowley hissed, almost growled, "It'sss a sssin, you know, to be ssso blesssed beautiful." With that, he leaned down, and kissed the angel, on the mouth. Blond lashes tickled his throat, as those eyes widened still more, then drifted closed._

_Oh, that taste. Sweet as fresh honey and the milk of Paradise, heady as old, old wine shared on an oriental roof. Ten times better even than Crowley had imagined, and he had imagined much._

_He had expected to be violently shoved away and literally kicked out on the street, and then to be forced to spend weeks and weeks apologising to the angel, explaining that it had been the wine, that he hadn't _meant_ to do it, that it would never happen again, and so on ad nauseam. He had _not_ expected Aziraphale to let out a tiny moan, bury his fingers in black hair, and pull the demon's head down further, to kiss him deeply in return._

_Crowley had no idea how much time had passed when he finally came up for unnecessary air, so dizzy with intoxication that he genuinely needed to lean on Aziraphale's shoulders to keep from falling over. He closed his eyes to shut out the vertigo, only to have it redouble when an indescribably soft voice said, "Oh, my dearest... Do you mean you... feel the same?"_

_A rush of blood to the head. With a tongue that had suddenly gone dust-dry, Crowley asked, "Angel... Mine?"_

_Aziraphale smiled the way only he could. "Always, dear heart. Always."_

_Crowley would never know where he'd found the strength; Aziraphale wasn't exactly a lightweight, after all. And yet the demon pulled him out of his chair, effortlessly swung him up in his arms, and charged up the stairs with him, Aziraphale laughing all the while._

_—_

_"Ah... No, Crowley, stop... Not there, dear..."_

_"Mmmmm... Don't you like it, then?" Crowley mumbled against the skin of Aziraphale's neck. "Just got started, angel. Won't stop now, angel. Far too delicious, this angel." And promptly resumed licking and kissing._

_Aziraphale shivered, and tightened his hold on the demon. "Nnnh... I do, dear, I do like it, but..."_

_"Ssssh..."_

_"It's just... Gah... Just a little higher, dear, right below the jawbone..."_

_Crowley raised his head, face full of surprise. Then he gave a Grin. "Well, well... Growing eager, are we? Didn't think you had it in you, angel."_

_Aziraphale flushed crimson. "Yes, um, I, um, well... Please, dear?"_

_"With pleasure," was the reply, and Crowley plunged his head down again. He didn't have to wait long for a reaction._

_"Aaaah! Oh no. Oh, God, Crowley! Too much, too much, stop!" positively kicking and writhing now. "You can't do this to me, it's driving me mad! I'm going to d-_die_ if you..."_

_Crowley looked up for the last time that night, more gratified than annoyed, if truth be told. "By your request, angel, remember? And if you think _that_ was too much, then your mind will _explode_ when our clothes come off."_

_Now Aziraphale, amazingly, was the one to grin. "Who's to say yours won't, too? I'm a fast learner, you know."_

_Crowley lifted an eyebrow. "Touché," he murmured, and picked up right where he'd left off._

_—_

_It felt so good. Warm sliding of skin on skin, their bodies fused together, their hearts beating as one. Hands touching. Mouths tasting. Pleasure so great it became pain._

_It was perfection, it was Paradise._

_This would not end well. Every fiber of Crowley's being knew it, but right now, he couldn't care less. This was something he'd craved for he didn't know how long, and now that it was finally here, he could no more let go of the angel, _his_ angel, than he could tear his own soul from his body._

_His own soul... Perhaps, in a way, that was exactly what the angel was. And why not? Later on, he'd be able to blame his current light-headedness for that over-sentimental thought. In the heat of the moment, however, he meant it._

_Crowley sighed when Aziraphale lifted a hand and tenderly stroked his cheek. The demon opened his eyes and looked at the angel in his arms. That smile and the soft, soothing light in those eyes were almost enough to blind him, even there in the warm darkness._

_"My dearest one..." said Aziraphale, lightly running his hands down the length of Crowley's back, starting little fires wherever his fingertips touched, "I know it's probably not something you want to hear right now, but," he held Crowley a little closer, so warm, the angel's white body, so warm, "I love you, dear."_

_In that instant, Crowley's heart could have burst. He wanted to jump out the window, spread his wings and fly up, high, high above the city, above the clouds, and scream out his joy and his pride._

_He did none of these things. Instead, he wound his limbs more tightly around Aziraphale, if such a thing was possible, brought their faces nearer together till he could feel his lover's sweet-smelling breath, and whispered, demonic nature be literally damned, "I love you too." There, he'd said it, it was out, and let the consequences come. This night, those didn't even exist. Only the two of them did._

_Golden, snake-like eyes looked into tear-shimmering blue ones; both pairs slowly closed, as Crowley, blood steadily rising to a boil again, moved in for a kiss..._

_–––_

...and woke up.

He shot up in bed, stunned, disoriented, and cold. The searing heat in his heart and in his flesh clashed to the point of agony with the lonely ice of reality, as his surroundings slid into focus.

Not the cosy little bedroom in the musty old bookshop, but another faceless, impersonal hotel room, in New York this time. Not that unforgettable night of their first love-making, but another monotonous, passionless waiting-for-the-dawn, with a block of negative ice in his arms. Not his blushing, breathless, blue-eyed angel, making him feel things that Crowley couldn't even think of without losing his breath himself and breaking into a sweat, but a marbly-pale, senseless, grey-eyed ghost, who wouldn't even fold his fingers when Crowley took his hand. The scorching love and desire from his dream still raged inside him, clamouring wildly, demanding to be heard, but he knew that they would never find a reply. Ever.

Then and there, sitting all alone with what was left of Aziraphale next to him, Crowley wished he could hate his angel for what he'd become, wished he could be furious with him, scream at him, beat at him with his fists, do something, _anything_, to _force_ him awake. But he couldn't. He didn't have the heart for it, not yet. Instead, he twisted round so he was on his knees, and started banging his head against the wall. Hard.

Blasted mind of his...

Bang.

...making him remember that...

Bang.

Where had it come from, anyway? He hadn't thought of it in centuries.

Bang.

Hadn't he?

Bang.

No matter. He'd been deceiving himself all this time.

Bang.

No more sweetness, no more. Drowning in a bitter ocean of tears, that was all that was left. For eternity.

Bang. Bang. _Bang_.

He stopped, dazed and in pain, and glared at his angel, who was smiling vacantly up at the ceiling, as usual. He must have landed on his back when Crowley let go of him.

Crowley sat staring for a long time. Then he grasped hold of the other's shoulders, clawing in till it bled, jerked him upright, and shook him violently, tears making it almost impossible to see. The breaking point had come at last. "Why must you always be smiling, curse you! There's nothing, nothing behind, and it's driving me _insane_! Stop it, stop it, I say, I can't stand it anymore! I can't stand _you_ anymore! I hate you, do you hear me? I hate what you've become!" He abruptly let go, and Aziraphale fell limply back on the bed.

With that single outburst, the madness had passed. Crowley leaned his head in his hands, willing the pain away, and failing. A monstrous, suffocating wave of guilt came crashing down upon him. What had he _done_? What had he been _thinking_? Aziraphale, poor, beloved, lost, long-suffering Aziraphale. His dear, sweet angel. _He_ was the greatest victim, the _only_ victim, of this entire nightmare, he should never, _ever_ be treated with anything but tenderness and care, and _what had Crowley done now_? Abused him, hurt him, screamed at him, shaken him like a dead rat, said he _hated_ him, of all impossible things!

There was only one thing that could be done. He had to take his angel in his arms again, _right now_, explain himself as best he could, though he had no idea how, and as of tomorrow, do absolutely everything in his power to make it up to him. There had to be a way to do it, and whatever it was, he would find it.

He wiped his eyes, and looked again at his angel, to tell him so, but noticed something before he could open his mouth.

The smile was gone.

It was _gone_. Only that worn, ravaged face was left, looking sadder and more lost than ever before.

The stars came tumbling down. The moon was swallowed up, eclipsed. Flashing lights streaking before his eyes, and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, from biting almost clean through his tongue.

No. _No_. Not this. Oh, please, Someone, Anyone, anything, _anything_, but not this. _Not this!_ That smile, the only thing that had kept him going, his guiding light through the years, the only constant sign he'd ever received that his Aziraphale still existed... Gone. Vanished. Snuffed out. Killed.

By him.

Crowley's throat was seized by an iron hand, a cold sweat broke out all over his body, and a black panic began to rise inside him, enveloping his brain. He knew what was coming next, and it wouldn't be much longer...

...there. Right there. It was happening. He could feel it. His mind cracking and giving way. Breaking. He clutched at his head, making crescent-shaped red marks on his temples and his forehead. He'd end up like Aziraphale now. His sanity would snap, and that would be the finish. He could almost welcome it, greet the end of misery. But then... Wait...

_What would happen to his angel?_

That thought, that single, simple thought, was his salvation. It jolted him like lightning, straight out of the abyss.

He shrieked, snapped Aziraphale up, hands moving blindly over his angel's back and head, unconsciously healing the wounds in those shoulders, trying to offer comfort, consolation, something, he didn't know, he was all instinct now, his half-restored mind whirling in circles. He wasn't even aware that he was doing anything, much less that he was speaking, but he was, fast and inarticulate.

"No, Aziraphale, no... Don't let go. Smile for me, keep me sane. _My_ Aziraphale, _my_ angel, _my_ lover, always, always. If that smile fades, it will kill me. I can take everything, _everything_ for your sake, but not that. Stay with me, just that little part of you, that's all I ask. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, do you understand, angel? Not a single word. I belong to you, I've always belonged to you, and I need you here, because I love you, _love you_, oh, _angel_!" There were no more words. He covered his angel's face in kisses, long and soft, then simply sat there, cradling him to his heart, gently rocking him back and forth like a child. Suddenly, he stopped, as an idea came to him.

It was the only plan his battered brain could come up with, and the only thing that had even the remotest chance of getting through to Aziraphale. That dream... Yes. _Yes_. The fires had still been burning, low but steady; now they flared up, like the flames of a volcano erupting, melting him with their heat, and Crowley knew, he _knew_, that this was the only right thing to do.

Carefully, very gently and carefully, he laid his angel back down, and crawled on top of him. Not daring to look at that face, filled as it was with ageless pain, Crowley lowered his mouth to Aziraphale's neck, right below the jawbone, and started to lick and kiss, slow and seductive, just as he'd done twenty-four centuries ago. Now, as before, was he not a past master, _the_ past master, in his trade? Had the situation not been so deadly serious, Crowley would have grinned, as his fingers were busy on pajama buttons.

_Feel me, angel? Somehow, I think you do._

Soon after, he discovered that it really didn't matter to him if his own pounding heart met no answering beat, if there was no warm breath playing on his skin, if no soft hands drove him to a fever pitch, if his burning kisses were not returned. This was as close to Paradise as he, no, as _they_ would ever be again, he knew, as, sheltering him in his wings, he held Aziraphale close, loving him.

–––

It was past noon, and the hot New York sun fell slantwise across the bed, the crumpled sheets, the pillows spread here and there, and the two people on one side of the mattress.

Limp as a rag, Crowley lay draped half-on, half-off his angel, one arm loosely tucked around the other's waist, the other dangling over the edge of the bed. He'd just woken up, and now lay basking in the afterglow that was still floating around the room. Idly, only half-conscious at most, he lifted the hand that rested on the floor, and began drawing lazy circles on Aziraphale's chest with his fingers. Breathing in the fresh, clean scent of his lover's skin, he eased in a little more comfortably against his angel, and let his muzzy thoughts untangle themselves at their leisure.

One by one, memories of last night's final events came drip-dropping in, and Crowley revelled in the remembrance of every touch, every kiss, every taste. Drifting in a many-coloured ocean of pleasant drowsiness, he embraced Aziraphale and kissed him again, long and mellow, savouring each second, his eyes closed, his hands pressed flat against Aziraphale's back.

Then his mind, unbidden, took a step further back in time, and automatically hit upon...

All the contented fuzziness was at once swept from Crowley's brain like concealing dust from a painting, and he instantly sat up, tense as a steel spring, paralysed with fear, staring at the wall hard enough to burn a hole through it. Slowly, at a near-imperceptible rate, he tilted his head down, acutely, disastrously aware that his entire fate would be determined by what he would see now.

And then he saw it.

Aziraphale was smiling again.

Crowley stared... blinked... twice... stared a little longer... and flopped forward, landing on top of his angel. To think was out of the question: his mind was too busy reeling from complete emotional overload. After what felt like a minute but must have been closer to an hour, he rolled over, off his angel, and took his hand in his. Their shoulders touched. He simply lay there, gazing up at the ceiling, now that the storm in his head had calmed, up at the ceiling, as though the final revelation he could perceive now as plain as day, was written on it.

From the moment he had first looked into Aziraphale's grey eyes, four hundred years before, there had been a certainty in him that life could never again be truly good as long as those eyes didn't turn blue again; in other words, as long as his angel didn't return to being who he had been. Now, in the light of a smile and an afternoon sun, Crowley could see this 'certainty' for the pitiful nonsense it was.

Aziraphale didn't _need_ to be what he had been for the two of them to be happy together. He didn't _need_ to talk, and laugh, and fuss over old books and an old Serpent, or anything like that. He _was_, he _lived_, he _existed_, and that was enough.

Crowley would simply let go of the past. He would not forget a single moment, ever, but there would be no more pointless clinging to what could never again be attained. Having the old Aziraphale back would be a happiness beyond his wildest dreams, but, and here was the crux, it was no longer vital. He wouldn't even let last night's earlier events bother him anymore. Why should he, when that smile told him he'd been forgiven?

There was a word for what Crowley was feeling now.

Peace. Such peace.

He glanced at Aziraphale, and returned the smile. Yes, returned it, for his angel's smile was meant for him alone. "First day of the rest of our lives, angel, once again," Crowley said, giving that hand a squeeze. With a contented sigh, he got out of bed, and began putting on his clothes. There were still many clubs left to visit in this city, after all.

As he took up his coat from where he'd carelessly thrown it down the evening before, a little piece of paper, yellowed and smoothed with age, but otherwise not worn in the slightest, fell from the left breast pocket, and drifted down to the floor.

_What in the...?_

He picked it up, and read it.

_Be strong, my friend, and steadfast._

_Things will change, I promise you._

_- G._

He frowned, puzzled at the words. It was certainly true. Things _had_ changed, and for the better. But how had the writer of this note known that they would? When and where had Crowley _got_ this note in the first place?

Wait a minute...

_"There are those who think that it was a horrible, unpardonable thing that happened, so long ago. You're not alone in that, friend, believe me."_

Of course. Bristol. That pub, and a stranger sitting down with them. Odd that Crowley had forgotten about it so quickly; that wasn't like him. He looked again at the note, with its dainty handwriting, and this time, something clicked. Hadn't he seen that same hand once before, a very long time ago, among Aziraphale's official correspondence?

And there it was. The penny was finally allowed to drop, and Crowley's mouth fell open.

It was her. G. Gabriel. Archangel of annunciation, resurrection, mercy, vengeance, death, and revelation. Crowley knew that well enough, from when Aziraphale had insisted on drumming all the details of the heavenly hierarchy into his head. If anyone could foretell the future, his angel had assured him, she was the one.

And that strange, androgynous character who had given him the note must have been an angel, one of her people. Crowley hadn't noticed at the time, and no wonder: Gabriel's angels were secretive ones, experts at concealing themselves.

Then the full implications dawned on him.

_"She also sends her love and her warmest regards."_

But... That meant that... That at least one person, Up There, cared about them and wished them well. The two of them were not absolutely alone, nor ever had been. After all that had passed, the notion was overwhelming. And it filled Crowley with deep, deep gratitude.

For a moment, he considered refolding the note and placing it back in his pocket, but then he changed his mind, walked over to the window, and slid it open. A cool breeze was blowing from the east. He looked up at the clear, cloudless sky, took a deep breath, and whispered, "Thank you." Then he held out the note, and let it go. The breeze caught it, carried it up, up into that vast expanse of blue, back to where it had come from. Crowley followed it with his eyes till it had vanished from sight.

Leaving the window open for fresh air, he slipped into his coat, and went to get his angel out of bed and dressed.

Life was good.

–––

Another year, a hundred years.

Crowley and Aziraphale.

Aziraphale and Crowley.

A strange pair, to be certain. One awake, the other asleep. One so eagerly, keenly, ecstatically _alive_ with all his senses, drinking in sights, sounds, scents, savours, and sensations, wherever he went, all eternally delightful, all perpetually new; the other holding communion with nothing and no-one on earth, save with the being always by his side. One, without effort, without even trying, simply through being there, constantly busy maintaining the faint smile that, coming from the other, fanned his lust for life into an all-consuming flame.

Two, infinitely different, yet endlessly alike. Two, fitting together, belonging together, more perfectly than ever lovers had, or would again. A lock and a key, an oyster and a pearl, a pair of neighbouring links in a chain.

Unbreakable.

–––

It was at hand, it was at hand. Prophets and prophecies often might lie, but not all, oh no, not all. And from one in particular, every word spoken was perfect truth, was holy writ, was gospel. And even as she had spoken, so it came to pass.

It happened on Bali, in the middle of a fragrant summer day, filled with the songs of wild birds.

"You know, Aziraphale, no matter whether you're an angel or a demon, you'll always be _my_ angel. You realise that, don't you?"

No answer, of course, not that Crowley had been expecting one. He merely settled a bit more comfortably against the banyan tree, pulled his mute lover closer, and continued his monologue.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it, angel? The smells of flowers, the sounds of wildlife, and just look at the way the sun hits that old temple over there. The stones look as though they were on fire. Quite the striking contrast with the blue sky behind it. Though of course," he added, pressing a soft kiss to the other's cheek and tousling his hair, "it's nowhere near as lovely a sight to my eyes as you are."

Once, long, long ago, Crowley would have bitten his tongue clean off rather than say something so disgustingly soppy. But those days were gone: the only thing that mattered now was to keep that faint, adorable smile on his angel's face. Besides, he fully meant what he said.

It started to rain. Crowley unfurled his wings, and wrapped them around the man nestled in his lap. Sure, he could have miracled it so the rain wouldn't touch them, but this way was much more pleasant for the both of them, he'd found.

"Comfortable, eh, angel? Snug and dry..."

And then Aziraphale stirred against his chest.

Reality slowed down to a crawl. Even the rain was falling in slow-motion. His blood thundering in his ears, Crowley sat stupefied with shock, cut loose from time and space, as his angel slid his arms around him and burrowed his face in his neck, movements slow and dreamlike, as of one just awakening from deep slumber.

"..._angel_?"

And _then_, it _happened_.

It took a second, no more than a second, for Crowley to surge up, his angel still in his arms, and dance him madly through the air, three feet above the ground, before tossing him down, flinging himself upon him, and kissing the beaming, tear-stained face wherever he could, over and over again.

Warm arms impossibly tight around each other and bodies pressed together, and laughter and rapture and delirious words and shared kisses bathed in tears, and glorious eyes, blue, _blue_, brimming with endless, inconceivable joy and love ineffable, looking into blazing golden ones, where the same feelings shone, like the sacred, deathless lights of Heaven itself.

For a certain voice, hoarse and cracked from centuries of disuse, had spoken two words.

Two words, merely.

"My _dear_..."

A pair of wings more black than midnight, and one more white than snow.

–––

And the wheels began to turn again.


	10. Epilogue: Full Circle

_Epilogue_

_Full Circle_

_–––_

"And so they are back together, their misery is over..." said she.

"...the long wait has ended, and life resumes its flow," said her companion.

God looked upon His son and daughter as they stood before Him hand in hand, and spoke, "Yes, My dear children. What was, is, and what is, will be. From the Beginning, their love was preordained. In the fullness of Time, it came to bloom, was quickly snatched away, yet never, never did it die. For two thousand five hundred years was it tortured, and it has emerged from the ordeal, made stronger and more lasting than aught else I have ever created. It will endure, through the endless passages of Time, until the End, and beyond, when the world will have been broken apart, and made anew. They, its beating heart, are eternal."

A silence, filled with thoughts too deep for words. Then, "Father?"

"Yes, My daughter?"

"I have felt... What of his wings, Father? What of Aziraphale's wings?"

He smiled. "I say again, My child, what was, is, and what is, will be. Both white and black are needed for grey."

Gabriel cried out, and flung her arms around her companion in delight. With some hesitation, the gesture was returned. Then, all three turned to the only other occupant of the chamber, as he lay prostrate on the floor before the Throne. The lash marks on his back, that he himself had requested, every day, were still red with ethereal blood. God said, "And you, My poor dear son, eldest and highest of My children, long-forgiven, though you would have it not, tell Me... Have you come to see?"

The golden one raised himself to his knees, and lifted his eyes to meet his Father's, something he had not permitted himself to do in five hundred years. "Yes, my Father. I see, I rejoice, I praise, I thank. The greatest lesson, and the greatest gift, that I have ever received. And for the healing of the wounds that I have inflicted, with all my heart I say, amen."

"Amen," said the other two.

"Amen!"


End file.
